


27 Dresses

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 27 dresses au, F/M, FS Rom Com AU, FS Rom Com Challenge, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimistic and selfless Jemma Simmons is always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Maybe she could be, if she could ever move on from her boss, Milton. The thing is, Jemma loves weddings and everything they entail. No one captures it better than the Commitments columnist for the New York Journal, Malcolm Doyle. When her supermodel younger sister comes to town and ends up engaged to Milton based on lies, Jemma is naturally the Maid of Honor. She’s been in 27 weddings, but this is the first one that she’s not sure she can make it through. </p><p>Cynical Leo Fitz wanted to be an investigative journalist, but instead he wound up writing the wedding beat for the New York Journal under the pseudonym Malcolm Doyle. When he notices Jemma Simmons running around between two different weddings on the same night, he thinks he finally found a wedding story worth writing. What starts as just another project soon turns into more, and Fitz starts to worry that he may be too close to this. </p><p>She challenges him. She’s beautiful and smart and funny and kind. </p><p>He frustrates her. He’s handsome and brilliant and never fails to make her laugh.</p><p>Maybe Jemma’s 28th wedding will be in a white dress. At least, Fitz sure hopes so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taxi

Ever since Jemma Simmons was a little girl, she had _loved_ weddings.

Shortly after losing her mother, her grieving father had taken her and her little sister to her cousin’s wedding. Jemma had been immediately enamored with the big pink bows, the flowers everywhere, the way that everyone seemed to be buzzing with excitement and reminiscing over how much the couple to be loved each other.

As usual, Amelia had needed something. In this specific instance, she had needed to use the bathroom. Jemma’s poor father looked immediately distressed. In the months since his wife had finally succumbed to her illness, he had been struggling to fill the massive void she left. With two little girls, he was often at a loss for what to do.

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Jemma immediately comforted. She patted his arm with one hand and took Amelia’s hand in the other. “I’ll take her.”

“Thank you, baby,” her dad sighed in relief. He had kissed her forehead fondly and Jemma had lead the way to the restroom. She waited for her sister to finish, helped her wash her hands, and then began the trek back to the chapel.

In the hallway, she heard her cousin scream. She and Amelia both jumped in surprise. Amelia looked weary, but Jemma approached the dressing room door and slowly pushed it open.

“Oh my God!” her cousin shrieked. “It’s ruined! It’s all ruined!”

Her wedding dress was torn raggedly, just at the bottom of the corset. The entire back of the skirt hung from only the sides, a large expanse of her skin visible.

Worrying her bottom teeth between her lip, Jemma ran through every possible solution in her head. That’s what Jemma did. At home, at school, everywhere, she fixed people’s problems and she made them feel better. She was a _fixer_ , and she knew she could fix this. If only she had some thread, she could sew like her mum had taught her before she died…

Jemma glanced down at her baby sister and the purple satin ribbon that Jemma had tied her brown curls up in.

Bingo.

In just fifteen minutes, with Jemma’s quick work and little hands, her cousin’s skirt was held up with a beautiful braid of lavender silk in the back. It looked intentional, and Jemma couldn’t help but grin toothily at her.

“Something borrowed,” she giggled.

Her cousin made a little “aw” sound and bent down to hug her. “Tell you what, Jemmy. Why don’t you hold my train?”

And so she did, walking behind the bride with her shoulders back and a wide smile on her face, the wedding march echoing all around them.

Weddings, young Jemma thought, were the best. She couldn’t wait to have one of her own.

***

She paces on the corner, waiting for Bobbi to arrive. Predictably, she’s running late.

“Hey!” Bobbi greets excitedly. She hugs Jemma, grimacing at the wedding dress between them. “Why do you even have that? Isn’t Daisy supposed to be the one in white?”

Jemma rolls her eyes. Unsurprisingly, Bobbi looks like a little bit of a mess. She’s sweaty, her hair in a messy ponytail, clearly having just come from her boxing class. At least she’s wearing the bridesmaids dress.

“Of course she is.” She hands Bobbi a little green satchel with a pointed look. “Bobbi pins and hairspray.”

Bobbi drops her jaw indignantly. “Hey! She said hair up, and my hair is up!”

“You know that isn’t what she meant, Barbara.”

“I hate these things,” Bobbi whines. “When is everyone we know going to start having divorce parties? Because those sound fun.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Jemma teases as they make their way up the steps to Daisy and Trip’s wedding venue. She checks her watch quickly. She has plenty of time to get Daisy dressed before she needs to dash over to Kara Palamas for her pre-wedding photographs.

“I’ve only been divorced once, and you wouldn’t let me turn it into a party,” Bobbi reminds her. “Clint got to have a party, but I didn’t!”

“Yes, well, Tony is an enabler and I am not,” Jemma says crisply. Bobbi bites back a smile as she recalls Jemma’s constant battles with one of Clint’s groomsmen over the course of her wedding.

Bobbi allows Jemma to frog march her into the bathroom, gently hanging the wedding dress over the large chaise lounge taking up half the space.

“What is this, a bathroom for the opera house?”

“Shut it and bend down,” Jemma demands. Bobbi huffs but squats down to allow her much-shorter friend access to her hair. She grimaces and moans and groans the entire time that Jemma tugs and yanks on her long blonde hair, but eventually it’s styled in an elegant chignon that even Bobbi has to admit looks nice.

“Daisy is lucky I love her,” Bobbi says half-heartedly, checking herself out in the mirror.

“She won’t if we don’t give her the dress in the next ten seconds.”

Bobbi snatches the dress up and dashes across the hall into the bride’s dressing area, Jemma trailing behind. “Daisy! I picked up your dress!”

Daisy turns around with a broad, nervous smile. “Thanks, Jemma.”

“I said I did it,” Bobbi interjects.

“We both know you didn’t. Now help me into it, would you?”

Delighted to, Jemma unzips the garment bag and helps her friend into her beautiful, perfectly fitted dress. “Oh, Daisy. You look stunning.”

“I swore I wasn’t going to cry,” Daisy chokes out as she looks at herself in the mirror. Jemma hugs her from behind, her cheek on her shoulder.

“It’s your wedding. You get to do whatever you please.”

***

Jemma yanks open the door to the taxi, shoving the garment bags in her hand onto the seat and sliding in behind them. With a cursory glance at her cell phone, she realizes she only has about ten minutes before Daisy’s dinner break. Jemma absolutely has to be back at the wedding—in which she’s the maid of honor—before then. She’ll only have half an hour at Daisy’s before she needs to run back to Kara and Grant’s wedding across town. Kara will absolutely die if the cake doesn’t come out at the right time. Jemma adopts her best no-nonsense voice and turns pointedly to the driver. 

“Okay. I’ll give you $500 for the entire night if you wait for me and if you don’t look in the back seat. Every time you do, I take off twenty bucks.” 

The driver raises his eyebrows. “What?” 

“Do you want the money or not?” she snaps impatiently. Before he’s even answered her, she’s unpinning the up-do that she’d worn for Kara’s wedding, shaking out her curls into the half-up style for Daisy’s. 

“Whatever you say,” the man chuckles. “I’m Mack, by the way.” 

“Thank you Mack,” Jemma sighs. She reaches up to unzip the black silk dress that Kara had put her in–a bit of a strange choice for a wedding, but Kara and Grant have always been unconventional and a little dark. Mack glances into the rearview mirror for a brief moment. 

“Hey!” 

“I wasn’t trying to–” 

“Twenty bucks,” she huffs as a reminder, wrestling her way out of the dress to put on a gauzy burnt orange number that Daisy had picked out. Daisy and Trip’s wedding is quintessentially them, seamlessly merging Trip’s Southern roots with Daisy’s Chinese heritage. 

Jemma is extremely proud of this wedding, perhaps even more so than the other twenty-six she’s played an instrumental role in. Daisy and Trip are two of the best people she knows and they deserve the best for the most important day of their lives. Jemma thinks she managed to help them do just that, which makes all of the stress and insanity over the last several months more than worth it. When Mack pulls up out front of Daisy’s venue, Jemma flashes him a smile.

“I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. Then back to the Hyatt. Don’t let my dress wrinkle.” 

“You’re a little weird, you know that?” Mack drawls, looking over his shoulder at her.

Jemma sighs and shuts the door. “I get that a lot.” 

As she dashes past the people milling in the lobby out front of the ballroom where Daisy’s reception is taking place, she misses the young man who had also attended Grant and Kara’s wedding. He watches her in interest, noting that she’d also been in the bridal party of that wedding. As soon as Jemma walks in, Daisy grabs her excitedly. 

“There you are! Tonight is absolutely _perfect_ ,” she gushes. She pulls Jemma into a tight hug, positively beaming. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

Leo Fitz watches her smile genuinely as she pulls back to look at her friend. “It was no trouble at all, Daisy. I’m happy to have helped.” 

He’s never seen anyone be genuinely pleased to be in two weddings in one night, and given his position as the Weddings writer for the New York Journal–that says something. He keeps an eye on her for the next half an hour. She slips back out to her cab like a pro. No one seems to notice she’s missing despite how instrumental she’s been in the whole process. 

Once she’s gone, Fitz wanders outside. He’s been to a hundred of these things—probably closer to a thousand, actually, and they all end up feeling the same to him. The same joking cake smash to the face, the same songs as first dances, the same bridesmaids and groomsmen getting sloshed and hooking up.

It’s all part of the motions of his job. It’s all part of the horrendous beat he’s been put on, when all he wants to do is write real stories about things that are actually important. This whole idea that love is even worthy of the news—it doesn’t compute with him. His editor Melinda May even agrees with him, but she’s also a big believe in giving the people what they want. The people are what keep the paper afloat to begin with.

From his spot leaning against the wall of the hotel, he watches her scramble out of a cab. The driver leans his head out of the window.

“HEY! Your lipstick,” the driver says, gesturing at his own mouth. The girl, evidently named Jemma based on Daisy’s enthusiastic greeting earlier, jumps slightly. She shoots her cabbie a grateful smile and opens up her clutch handbag.

“Oh no,” she moans. “I’ve run out of face wipes.”

Her driver shifts his jacket, pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket. He waves it out the window at her and she beams happily, running for his window. She furiously wipes at her lips until the offending dark color is off of her mouth.

Gingerly, she offers the cloth back to her driver. He grimaces dramatically, glaring at the oily lipstick smeared all over it.

“Ya know what, weirdo? Keep it.”

“Thanks, Mack!”

Mack gives her a thumbs up and Jemma turns to dash back into the hotel. The edge of her dress gets stuck in the closed door and she shrieks, rebounding backward. Fitz hides a laugh behind his hand. This hectic, busy, insane woman is the most interesting thing he’s seen at a wedding in years.

He seems to be the only one who notices that she ever left. She melts back into the crowd easily, jumping right into the cupid shuffle with her fellow bridesmaids and the bride. It’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

The cupid shuffle winds down and Jemma skips up to the microphone with a wide grin.

“Okay, ladies! Daisy will now be tossing her bouquet, so we’ll ask that everyone lines up on the dance floor.”

She hands the microphone back to the lead singer of the band. She strides out onto the dance floor and firmly plants herself directly in the middle.

She likes to think that she’s not superstitious, but she’s been in twenty-seven weddings and she’s _never once_ caught a bouquet. She’s also _never_ _once_ gotten close to getting married herself. If catching some bouquet of flowers might elevate her chances even the tiniest bit—well, then she’s willing to hop up an down.

Plus, it’s tradition. Jemma is a sucker for tradition, particularly wedding traditions. From the music to the games to the way that couples almost always smash cake in each other’s faces—she adores every second of it.

Weddings are magic to her, start to finish. If she had it her way, love would be the only news printed in the papers.

Daisy lines up to do the bouquet toss, shooting Jemma a wink over her shoulder as she does so. When the bouquet goes flying into the air directly toward her. The flowers flip and flip as Jemma stretches her arms up as high as they can reach. She’s _almost there_.

But then a blur of stampeding women collide with her, knocking Jemma onto the ground.

The world goes black, Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” the soundtrack to her fall.

***

Jemma awakens with a groan, her fingers slowly reaching for her head. She blinks her eyes open, the blurry figure of someone standing over her gradually sharpening into view.

She had seen him briefly outside, as she had made a return from Kara and Grant’s wedding. His blue eyes are striking, his build slight, and he smiles at her gently.

“Good morning,” he grins. “Glad to see you’re up.”

“Morning?” she asks wearily. The loud music sends a jolt of pain through her skull.

A couple of Daisy’s other bridesmaids—women she had met at a retreat with her mother, called Afterlife—titter around her. The man furrows his brow and barks directions at them.

“I’m going to need exactly six cubes of ice, a shot of whiskey, and a rag for her to bite down on. Stat!”

He snaps his fingers and they scamper off. Jemma frowns as he helps her sit up, his hands warm and soft on the silk of her dress.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Nope,” he smirks. “I just thought they were kind of annoying. I’m Leo Fitz.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Jemma Simmons. On that note, I’m going to go home.”

“I don’t think standing up is such a good idea.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, standing shakily on her little kitten heels. To her surprise, the entire room spins around once, and then twice, and she stumbles.

Directly into the waiting arms of Fake Doctor Leo Fitz.

“I’ll split a cab with you,” he offers. “To make sure you get home safe.”

She appreciates the clarification, but she certainly doesn’t need any help getting home. She stubbornly shakes her head even as she allows the complete stranger at her side to lead her outdoors.

“Mack will take care of that. Wait! I have to bring home a centerpiece.”

Fitz sighs loudly, letting her wobble to one of the tables so that she can retrieve a large centerpiece made up almost entirely of sorbet colored daisies. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she affirms. “Take me to Mack.”

“Who’s Mack, exactly?”

“My driver,” she explains, waving at him in his cab. Her driver turns out to be much larger than she first anticipated. He gets out of the car with a grim expression on his face, eying the man next to her cautiously.

“Who’s this? I don’t think you should be going home together.”

Jemma laughs. “This is Leo Fitz. I got knocked over during the bouquet toss and he helped me.”

Fitz raises his free hand in surrender. “I just want to make sure she gets home okay.”

Mack examines his face for any hint of ill will and nods firmly. “Fine. Hop in, I’ll take you home after her.”

Fitz smiles in victory and helps Jemma slide into the backseat of the taxi. “It’s finally over.”

Jemma purses her lips in annoyance. “Let me guess, you’re a cynical, sarcastic man who doesn’t believe in love and weddings, and yet you still manage to talk bridesmaids into going home with you.”

“Technically, I talked you into letting me take you home,” he quips, “despite the lack of an offer to stay the night, mind you. And if you’re implying that I don’t believe in marriage…well, then you would be right.”

She shifts to lean her aching head against the window. She gives him her most withering, sarcastic look. “How refreshing, a man who doesn’t believe in marriage!”

“Marriage is an outdated, antiquated institution, propped up by bakers and the designer dress industry to trick hundreds of thousands of people every year to spend their life savings on _one day_ —“

“One beautiful, perfect day with the people they care most about while they dedicate themselves to each other for the rest of their lives,” Jemma interrupts. “Weddings are the closest thing to magic that exists on this earth.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Did you really just say that? Really? Magic?”

“Yes,” she huffs, attempting to cross her arms but ultimately failing due to the gigantic centerpiece on her lap. “Turn here.”

“Huh?”

“Not you, Mack.”

“Ah, right,” he concedes. He looks at the black dress on the seat between them in distaste. “I can’t believe you were in two weddings tonight.”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s not the first time, I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

His jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t kid with you, I hardly even like you—“

“Hardly is close enough,” he grins. She’s starting to find his effortless charm more than agitating. “What is your deal with weddings, huh? Give me the real story. Were you left at the alter? Did you elope at a young age only for your groom to die dramatically? That would be positively Shakespearean.”

“You’re a pest,” she sighs.

“And a persistent one at that,” he continues on. “I’m just trying to understand how you could continuously subject yourself to these atrocious false displays of fidelity and love forever.”

“You’re making me sick,” Jemma hisses. “Honestly! It’s as though you’ve never cared about another human being in your life! These people are my friends, and they’ve fallen in love, and being a part of the biggest day of their lives is an honor and a privilege. I suppose you wouldn’t know a thing about that, since you’re some kind of—some kind of heartless robot!”

He just smirks at her, clutching at his chest. “Jemma. You wound me.”

“Well, _Leo,_ let’s hope it’s a deep one.”

“Your calling me Leo is the biggest wound of all. It’s just Fitz.”

“I don’t really care what it is,” Jemma snaps. “Mack, up here on the right!”

“Got it,” he says easily. He seems completely unruffled by their bickering and fighting. When Jemma moves to get out of the car, Fitz starts to follow. “Hey! You said you weren’t going to try anything funny.”

“I’m not!” Fitz insists once again. “I’ll be back down in one minute, promise.”

“No, you won’t,” Jemma grumbles, her arms full of makeup bags, a dress, and the centerpiece. “Because I’ll murder you if you follow me upstairs.”

Fitz rolls his eyes and manages to catch the centerpiece just as it nearly tumbles from her arms. “You’ve got a concussion. I just want to make sure you actually arrive at your final destination, and that you don’t break this tasteless centerpiece on the way there.”

“It’s not tasteless! I chose these!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

She opens her mouth to protest again when they reach her front door, but then she steps on the extra dress she’s carrying and nearly ends up on the floor for the second time in one evening. When she wordlessly hands the centerpiece to Fitz, freeing up her sightline, he simply raises an eyebrow.

Exhausted, annoyed, and more than ready for this interaction to be over, Jemma opens the front door and leads the way in to her building. They stand in awkward silence in the elevator, and when they reach her apartment he shuffles in after her, gingerly placing the vase of daisies on the counter.

“Alright, Jemma Simmons, see you around.”

He gives her a cheeky little salute and leaves immediately after. She’s a little bit surprised by that, actually. She had expected more bickering. As she makes her way to the bathroom to wipe off her double-wedding makeup, she presses the button on her answering machine.

“Hi big sister!” a perky voice, much like her own, chirps. Jemma freezes mid-rinse, awkwardly crouched over the sink. “It’s Amelia. Obviously. Anywho, I’m going to be coming in to New York _tomorrow_! Can you pick me up at JFK at 4:00? Please, please, please? Who am I kidding, of course you will. I’m _so_ excited to see you and daddy. Love you!”

Silence falls over the apartment for a long moment and a slow smile spreads over Jemma’s face. While her younger sister Amelia is certainly a handful, Jemma loves her to pieces. She’s been off modeling in Europe for over a year now, living her usual glamorous, adventurous life.

“I’ll need to clear up my schedule,” she murmurs to herself. “Where’s my planner…”

She wanders over to the pile of her belongings in the middle of her little entryway and begins digging, the crease between her eyebrows deepening the longer she goes without finding it. It’s bulky, a thick brown leather planner that carries her entire life in it.

Jemma excels at preparation, and that often means meticulously planning every moment of every day, practically minute by minute.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she curses repeatedly.

She left her planner in the cab. Leo Fitz has undoubtedly gotten ahold of it.


	2. The Planner

Jemma arrives at work the next morning with sore feet and a bright smile. She arranges a breakfast burrito and large coffee on her boss’s desk and prepares his office for his arrival.

She had graduated top of her class in communications at NYU, a fact that Bobbi constantly throws in her face. Fresh out of college, she had taken a job as an executive assistant for young CEO Milton George. Outdoor Live was his brainchild, a line of affordable, sustainably made products for camping and hiking. Over the years, it had blossomed into a magazine, a lifestyle brand, and even some food products.

Jemma loves her job. She loves the company she works for. She loves its mission and she loves that they give back more money to their community than any other company of its kind.

Suck it, REI. 

Bobbi interrupts her calm morning as she scoffs in the doorway. “Jemma, you have got to stop.”

Jemma looks up at her, jaw dropping. “Bobbi! You can’t wear that to work!”

Bobbi looks down at her outfit. It’s a white button-down shirt, presumably belonging to whatever man she had gone home with last night. She belted it at the waist with the burnt orange ribbon from her bridesmaid dress.

“This? Phil doesn’t care. Besides, who gets married on a weekday? I think Daisy just wanted to hear about all of her friends walk of shaming to their jobs the next morning.” 

“Phil should care,” Jemma insists, referencing Bobbi’s boss.

He’s the Chief Operating Officer at Outdoor Live, fondly referred to as The Director by his underlings. Jemma decides not to mention that Daisy had actually told her explicitly that she couldn’t wait to hear about embarrassing office walks of shame.

“What kind of Hobbit did you sleep with? That shirt is incredibly short on you.”

“Trip happens to have an old friend who is very cute and very British,” Bobbi smirks. She throws Jemma a cheeky wink. “And we both know I love my Brits.”

Bobbi is her best friend, and an incorrigible flirt when she chooses to be. “Barbara!” Jemma chastises. “You also dodged my question. You’re taller than him.”

“Only by a little bit,” she grimaces. “I think I actually want to see him again.”

“ _Now_ I’m shocked,“ Jemma admits. “You really do?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Bobbi evades. Ever since her divorce from Clint Barton, she’s been a complete commitmentphobe. “We’ll see.”

 “I wish you and your Hobbit boyfriend the best of luck.” 

“He’s one of your countrymen!” Bobbi reminds her rather indignantly.

“If he manages to get you to commit to something, then Britain will have finally gotten comeuppance for the Revolution,” Jemma jokes. With a roll of her eyes, Bobbi gestures again at Milton’s desk. 

“I might be afraid of love, but you’re just sad.”

 “I’m not sad!”

“You’re clearly in love with him,” Bobbi says. It’s an argument they have frequently, and Jemma’s least favorite.

“I am not in love with him,” she denies vehemently.

It’s not _completely_ a lie either. Jemma doesn’t throw the word love around lightly. For someone who’s such a romantic, she has a hard time getting in touch with her own feelings most of the time. She’s pragmatic, logical, and impeccably organized. When she can’t organize her feelings into neat little boxes, she tosses them aside.

So now, Jemma isn’t in love with Milton, but she’s had a crush on him for the better part of her twenties. It’s not just any crush, either, it’s the overwhelming, thought-consuming kind that drives her up the wall.

But Milton is her boss and clearly he would never be interested in someone like her anyway. She’s smitten but she isn’t delusional.

“You’re never going to know unless you tell him,” Bobbi says sagely. She has a way of knowing exactly what Jemma is thinking.

“I would take you far more seriously if you weren’t dressed like that,” Jemma drawls, pointing a finger at Bobbi.

“I call this look…vicious trollop,” Bobbi grins.

“Bobbi! Do you have my flight itinerary?” Phil calls out. Bobbi jumps and attempts to straighten her makeshift dress just as Phil rounds the corner. His eyes widen at her appearance and he sighs heavily.

“I’m not going to ask, but I will offer the samples from the new women’s yoga line that are in my office.”

Bobbi relaxes. “Thank you so much. I’ll forward you your flight information right now.”

Phil nods and goes to get the clothes for Bobbi as she heads back to her desk. She turns around with final parting words.

“Tell him, or I’m going to keep calling you pathetic!”

“There’s nothing to tell!” Jemma sing-songs back at her.

Bobbi throws up a rather rude hand gesture just as Milton exits the elevator with his slobbery puppet of a dog, Gatsby.

“Gatsby!” Jemma exclaims happily, kneeling down as he runs to her. She pets him on the head and doesn’t even flinch at the slobber dripping on her hand. “My favorite slob!”

“I hope you mean the dog and not me,” Milton jokes. She looks up at him with a nervous smile.

“Of course I meant you,” she teases. “I would never disrespect Gatsby that way.”

“We all know he’s the real boss around here. Did you get—“

“The new layouts are on your desk, as is a spinach and tofu breakfast burrito and a large coffee from Natural Café,” Jemma finishes for him.

He gets that little twinkle in his eye that she just adores. “Have I told you lately that I would be lost without you?”

She practically swoons. She hears Bobbi fake gag somewhere to the side. “I can’t say you have.”

“Well I would,” he smiles. “Thanks, Jemma.”

He heads to his office and she stares after him for a long moment, until Bobbi coughs out the word “pathetic” over and over again.

“Rude!” Jemma huffs to her friend. Bobbi just laughs and Jemma is saved from any further torture by her desk phone ringing. She picks it up and holds the receiver to her ear. “Jemma Simmons.”

“You have a very professional phone voice,” Leo Fitz laughs. “I have to say, it’s pretty impressive.”

She sinks into her chair, relieved. “Fitz! Thank god.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d be so happy to hear from me. Definitely happy, don’t get me wrong, but not quite as ecstatic.”

“Do you have my planner?”

“You mean your psychopathic minute-by-minute agenda of the rest of your life? I have it,” he confirms.

“It’s not psychopathic. I excel at preparation,” she replies haughtily.

“ _This_ is not preparation,” he says. “This is madness.”

“Ugh,” Jemma scoffs. “You probably do your laundry once a month. You seem the type. Some of us adults like to have structure to our lives.”

“Structure is one thing. Controlling every little thing is another. And are you _seriously_ in five more weddings this year?! How do you even have the time?”

“I just love weddings, okay?” she practically shrieks. Bobbi looks up curiously and Jemma lowers her voice. If she finds out that Jemma is talking to a handsome, infuriating Scottish man, Jemma will never hear the end of it.

Bobbi and Fitz would be a horrifying dream team of annoying Jemma at every turn. She can’t let that happen.

“I’ll meet you at your office?” he offers. “On my lunch.”

“I’ll come down,” she clarifies. “No need to come up here.”

“Don’t want to introduce me to your friends?” he asks. “That hurts, Jemma. And to think, you were so happy to hear from me.”

“You’re incredibly frustrating.”

“So I’ve been told. That’s alright, maybe I’ll see you at…hm…let’s see here…”

“Don’t go through my stuff!” Jemma protests.

“Too late, I’ve already read most of it. Ah, here it is. Yet another engagement party, for Joey and Ryan.”

“My co-worker and his fiancé,” Jemma says primly. “I happen to be an excellent party planner so they asked for my help.”

“Yeah well, don’t forget to finalize the menu by 11:00 a.m. You have that bit underlined about seven times, so it seems important.”

Jemma looks at the clock. It’s 10:34.

“Shit!” she curses. “Fitz, I have to go.”

“Do you need the phone number?”

“Yes please,” she says meekly. He reads it off and she thanks him grudgingly. “Meet me at my office at 12:30. The address is in the front of the book.”

“You really shouldn’t have all of your addresses in here,” he muses. “That seems unsafe, especially when this thing is basically a guide on How To Stalk Jemma Simmons.”

“Creep.”

“Freak.”

“See you later,” she sighs. She slams the phone down and quickly dials the restaurant for the engagement party, briefly forgetting all about Leo Fitz.

She gets caught up in the flurry of finalizing plans, fixing Milton’s mistakes in his emails, and obsessively checking Amelia’s flight status. By the time 12:30 rolls around, she nearly misses it. Grabbing her purse, she avoids Bobbi’s eyes and heads to Milton’s office.

“I have to meet someone for something and then I’m headed to the airport to pick up my sister,” Jemma explains. “I’m available on my cell and email.”

He frowns. “How did I not know you have a sister?”

Jemma tramps down the hurt and shrugs it off. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t mentioned her.”

Jemma has _definitely_ mentioned her. She had practically raised Amelia after their mom died. Their father loved them to death but he had been ill-prepared for single parenthood to two young daughters. Jemma had stepped in to take over most things. She made sure Amelia did her homework, enforced her curfew, taught her the birds and the bees…Jemma did just about everything.

Plus, there’s a 5 x 7 picture on her desk of her and Amelia, cheeks squished together with wide grins on their faces from two Christmases ago.

“Well, have fun,” he says awkwardly.

“See you.”

She waves to Bobbi, refusing to slow long enough to answer questions about why she has to go to the airport so early to get Amelia. When she reaches the sidewalk, Fitz is already standing there.

He looks rumpled, in a worn button-down with a messenger bag across his chest. She strides up to him and holds her hands out.

“My planner, please.”

“The word please is kind of negated when you say it with such hatred,” he observes.

“Ugh, Fitz!” she says, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “That book is my entire life. I need it back.”

“Five more seconds isn’t going to kill you,” he says. Based on the way her heart is racing, she thinks it just might. Her hands are inexplicably clammy and she glares at him.

“I have to go pick up my sister at the airport.”

“Huh, that’s not on here.”

“It’s a last minute trip,” she says through gritted teeth. “Amelia does everything last minute.”

“You sound a bit resentful there, Simmons, maybe you should step back and do something for yourself for a minute.”

Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he says defensively, holding up his hands. “Out of all of the ten thousand things in here, none of them seem to actually be for you.”

“They’re all for me,” she insists. “Doing things for the people I love is something that I do for me.”

He pins her with a sardonic stare. “You’re one of those.”

“I’m one of what?”

“You’re an emotional martyr, throwing your sanity on the pyre. Trust me, you’re going to explode. One more bad day of taking everyone’s crap and you’re going to go completely postal. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Given that we won’t be interacting anymore past this point, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” Jemma says with a brittle smile. “Give me my planner.”

With a sigh, he roots around in his bag and hands it to her. “Here you go, crazy.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would stop calling me that.”

Fitz ignores her, walking toward the curb. He confidently waves one hand into the street and a cab pulls up. Jemma’s eyes widen.

“You just hailed a cab in Manhattan on your first try.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he grins. He starts walking backward down the street, with a little wave. “See you around, Jemma.”

“I bloody well hope not,” she mutters as she climbs into the car.

But on the ride to the airport, she can’t seem to get him out of her head. Jemma has a tendency to be sharp. She knows that about herself. She’s also quick-witted, and it’s rare that she encounters someone who can keep up.

Leo Fitz doesn’t just keep up—he seems to _outpace_ her. He’s agitating, clearly, but he’s also an incredibly interesting challenge, and there’s nothing she enjoys more than a good challenge. His negativity, though—that’s the deal breaker.

Being negative is fine, but being negative just for the sake of it? Well, that drives her crazy. As far as Jemma Simmons is concerned, the world is far too full of gloom and doom. The last thing that anyone needs is some dark cloud of a person trailing after them, criticizing every last thing and offering no solutions or positive feedback.

Her mind keeps twisting around him all the way to JFK. What made him so cynical? A bad breakup, perhaps? Is he always this forward with people, or is it just something he’s doing with her? Does she actually never want to see him again? _Why_ are her hands so clammy?”

The cab driver pulls up to JFK and she’s torn from these meandering thoughts. She walks quickly to the baggage area and waits for Amelia.

Unsurprisingly, it takes her sister forever to get off of the plane. She was probably too busy charming the pilot to actually disembark.

“Jemma!” an excited voice squeals.

Her sister has the strangest accent, a half-American half-British lilt that is somehow endearing even though she sounds a little bit like Madonna faking an accent.

“Amelia!”

They embrace with a crash of their bodies, Amelia’s large Louis Vuitton purse striking Jemma hard in the back.

“Let me look at you,” Jemma insists, pulling back to stare at her little sister.

She’s beautiful as ever, with her doe eyes and her thick hair and her perfect little cupid mouth.

“I hate you for looking this good after coming off of a transatlantic flight,” Jemma grouses, but she can’t stop grinning. 

Amelia is trouble, sure, but Jemma loves her more than anything. No matter how much of her own life Jemma had to give up for her, she’s never held it over Amelia’s head. She’s proud of her for making it on her own as a model, even if Amelia dropped out of college a semester early to pursue it. It had made Jemma angry beyond words at the time, but seeing Amelia succeed at it has patched up that anger. Maybe Amelia had been right—maybe not everything came from college and doing things the “right” way. 

“You’ve finally learned to pack light,” Jemma observes, staring at the lone suitcase a Amelia’s feet. Amelia rolls her eyes. 

“Oh, I definitely didn’t. Sergio!” 

Jemma looks behind her to find a handsome Italian guy pushing a cart full of Louis Vuitton luggage. “Oh, good god, Amelia.” 

“He’s sweet!” Amelia defends. 

“Let him go,” Jemma chastises. “I thought you were still with Emilio?”

“Ugh,” Amelia scoffs in disgust. “Emilio dumped me, can you believe that?”

Jemma smiles softly and takes the cart from poor besotted Sergio. “You probably dodged a bullet there. Emilio and Amelia was a little much.”

Amelia giggles. “I guess it was.”

Jemma leads the way to the taxi line and they manage to get one right away, thanks to Amelia’s charms. Jemma stands next to her, back to feeling invisible again. It’s always been this way for the two of them—Amelia is beautiful and charismatic, Jemma is practical and plain.

When they’re on their way back into the city, Jemma finally asks the question that’s been burning in the back of her mind ever since she listened to Amelia’s voicemail.

“How come you came home?” Jemma muses curiously. “It sounds like Europe was going really well for you.”

“It was,” Amelia beams, “but it was just _so_ exhausting. I needed to come home and rest. Besides, I really missed you and Daddy.”

Jemma smiles and reaches over to squeeze Amelia’s hand. “We missed you too, darling.”

The cab rolls to a stop and Amelia looks up at the building curiously. “Hm. It’s cute.”

Jemma resists rolling her eyes. It had taken her years of hard work to afford an apartment like this in Greenwich Village. It’s a beautiful building, and while her apartment isn’t exactly huge, it’s not a shoebox either.

Jemma ends up with all of Amelia’s many suitcases, lugging them up the stairs and trailing after her chatty sister. Jemma stops at her door and Amelia continues on down the hallway.

“Amelia!” Jemma exclaims. “This one.”

Her sister jumps and spins around. “Whoops! Sorry, I was just so caught up in that story.”

“Apparently,” Jemma says wryly, struggling her way through the door. She drops Amelia’s belongings in the living room and gestures widely around. “Well, this is my apartment. Make yourself at home—“

“Did you get—“

“Strawberry poptarts? Of course I did,” Jemma smiles widely. “There’s also some Red Bull and Grey Goose, for your more adult needs.”

Amelia bounces over and hugs Jemma tightly. “It’s good to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Jemma says sincerely. Amelia pulls away from her slowly, looking at something over Jemma’s shoulder. Jemma turns around to see what it is as Amelia reaches for the framed photo of their parents on their wedding day.

“They really did love each other,” Amelia wonders out loud. “What a wedding.”

Jemma smiles softly, staring down adoringly at the photo. Their mother is in a long-sleeved lace dress, her curls rather wild on her head. Their father is in a clean-cut tuxedo, and the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park is behind them. 

“Sometimes it surprises me that they got married here, instead of Sheffield. New York isn’t exactly a destination wedding spot,” Jemma adds. 

“Mom loved it here.”

Jemma internally cringes. It drives her crazy that Amelia refers to their mother as “mom” instead of “mum”, the tiniest distinction and reminder that Amelia was so young when she died. She doesn’t even remember her, so of course she doesn’t remember what they properly called her.

“Mum really did,” Jemma gently corrects. “They had the perfect wedding.”

“How are you doing?” Amelia finally asks, looking over at Jemma. “Still running around, helping everyone you know get married?”

Jemma laughs warmly. “Pretty much, yes.”

“Are you ever going to start looking around for your own happiness?”

Jemma thinks of Milton, a fleeting image of him in her head. The image is closely followed by the echo of Leo Fitz’s voice, and she shakes herself.

“I am happy,” Jemma assures her. “I have a great job, great friends, and I spend most of my free time helping people with the most important day of their lives.”

Amelia fiddles with the ends of her hair. “Okay. As long as you’re happy, Jemma. That’s what matters.”

Amelia has never understood that sometimes—most of the time—Jemma’s happiness _has_ to take a back seat to other people. Amelia’s entire upbringing had been case in point of that fact.

Amelia spots something else on the table and gasps. She picks up the stack of newspaper clippings. 

“You’re still doing this?” she asks incredulously. “Jemma!”

Amelia is laughing, clearly at her expense, and Jemma snatches the articles back. They’re all from the Commitments section of the New York Journal, penned by her favorite writer, Malcolm Doyle.

Nobody captures a wedding like he does. Nobody else portrays love and commitment like him. She adores everything he writes.

“Those are just my favorites,” Jemma defends. “He’s really good. The quality of the writing is phenomenal.”

“Some things never change,” Amelia sighs fondly.

Jemma shifts the topic of conversation away from her Commitments Section habits. “One of my co-workers just got engaged and I helped plan his engagement party. You should come, it’s at the _greatest_ restaurant in Manhattan.”

“I’m supposed to meet up with some old friends from my New York agency,” Amelia says apologetically. “But if we’re done at a decent hour, I’ll stop by.”

“Alright, sounds good. Joey and Ryan will really appreciate it.”

“Joey and Ryan?” Amelia echoes. Jemma prepares herself to give her little sister a firm talk about homophobia, but Amelia just grins. “Right on.”

Jemma smiles back and shuffles toward her bedroom. “I'm glad you're here, Amelia. Truly.”


	3. A Secret Admirer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks! 
> 
> Firstly for not updating in so long, and secondly for there not being much Fitz in this chapter beyond a couple of mentions. But have no fear, he'll be coming back up in a big way for the remainder of the story :)

When Jemma arrives at work the next morning, she’s startled to see a large bouquet of flowers waiting for her at her desk. They’re a beautiful bunch of dahlias—her favorite flower—and she races for them, desperately looking for a card.

 

Her efforts are fruitless, with no indication of who sent them.

 

A little bubble of hope rises up in her. Surely, after all of these years, Milton might have noticed that she always purchases dahlias from the little flower cart a few blocks away, whenever they’re in season. Who else would possibly know that they’re her favorite? Amelia had still been asleep when Jemma left, and if they had been from Bobbi, there certainly would have been some kind of outrageous note attached to them.

 

“Ooh,” Bobbi cheers as she pops up suddenly behind her. Jemma clutches her chest and smacks her friend lightly on the arm.

 

“You scared me!”

 

“Who are these from?” Bobbi teases, examining the bouquet. “I’ve spent two nights with Benedict Arnold already and I haven’t gotten a single damn flower.”

 

Jemma chokes on a laugh. “Benedict Arnold? You do know he was an American, not a Brit.”

 

“He was technically British,” Bobbi corrects smugly. “ _Everyone_ here was technically still British, and he betrayed the Americans.”

 

Jemma frowns. “Did he betray you somehow? What’s going on? What’s his name?”

 

Bobbi laughs warmly and holds up a placating hand. “Woah there, Scrappy Doo. No need to brawl, I was just kidding.”

 

Jemma huffs. “I’m not Scrappy Doo!”

 

Bobbi looks down at her incredulously. “You’re the size of a common field mouse, Simmons.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jemma replies acerbically. “I didn’t know you had climbed down from your bloody beanstalk!”

 

“Rude,” Bobbi grins. “But I like the sass.”

 

“Why are we friends?” Jemma whines.

 

“Because we’re both going to die here?” Bobbi suggests cheerily.

 

“Ah, right.”

 

“So, what’s got your panties in a bunch?” Bobbi asks. “And again, who sent these flowers?”

 

“My panties are not in a bunch. I have no idea who sent them,” Jemma admits.

 

“Hmm, so no little sister troubles?”

 

“No!” Jemma denies. “Of course not. I’m so happy to have Amelia back in the city.”

 

“Great,” Bobbi smiles, quite clearly in sarcasm. “Me too.”

 

“You two need to learn to play nice.”

 

“Not all of us are _posh_ enough for her.”

 

Jemma nearly snaps, but restrains herself. It’s not worth it to get in the middle of Bobbi’s rivalry with her sister. From Jemma’s recollection, it began several years ago and involved a handsome athlete.

 

An archer, maybe?

 

She shakes herself. “Your accent is getting better.”

 

“It’s all of the mocking of the Brit.”

 

“Does the Brit have a name?”

 

“Lance Hunter,” Bobbi supplies. “I guess he and Trip went through the Academy together or something.”

 

Jemma opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by Milton’s voice as he enters the office.

 

“What’s the new gossip, ladies?”

 

Bobbi rolls her eyes. She’s never been fond of Milton’s tendency to act like they’re constantly gossiping like a couple of old broads. Jemma has listened to many of her friend’s rants about sexist microaggressions in their workplace, so she decides to nip this one in the bud before it can really get going.

 

“No new gossip today, I’m afraid,” Jemma smiles. “Where’s Gatsby?”

 

“He decided to work from home today.”

 

Bobbi slinks back off toward her own desk, but freezes halfway when Milton speaks.

 

“Hey, did you get that thing I left on your desk?”

 

Jemma’s heart stops. Her face flushes and her eyes widen. She can’t believe that this is happening—the flowers on her desk _are_ from Milton. She’s practically dizzy with it.

 

“Oh. Um, yes. Yes, I did!” she says breathily. She hears Bobbi snort somewhere behind her. “Thank you so much.”

 

His brow furrows. “Don’t thank me. I’m sure it makes your job harder.”

 

She blinks rapidly. “I’m—no. It’s perfectly fine. It’ll have no affect on my job whatsoever.”

 

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You’re an odd one, Jemma Simmons.”

 

She giggles, a shrill kind of laugh that she’s never heard come out of her own mouth before. She grimaces and turns sharply on her heel to hustle back to her desk.

 

“Oh my god,” she mouths at Bobbi.

 

Bobbi, on the other hand, doesn’t look as thrilled for her. She looks a little bit worried, for some reason that Jemma can’t quite place.

 

Between Leo Fitz, her sister’s sudden arrival, and now this, she has a bittersweet taste in her mouth and she refuses to let it stay there. The man she’s had a crush on since she was fresh out of college gave her flowers.

 

Not just any flowers, either. Her absolute favorites.

 

Her cynical best friend can’t keep her down on that one. She goes about her day with a pleasant buzzing in her chest, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that begs her to ask Bobbi what that face was all about.

 

***

 

“This is amazing,” Joey gasps. The smile spreading across his face fills Jemma with a sense of accomplishment. She watches him gaze out at the décor—which she had hand-selected and arrived three hours early to set up with the restaurant staff.

 

“I’m so glad you like it, Joey,” she sighs, incredibly pleased. “I was a little bit nervous about the hub caps—“

 

He chuckles warmly, giving her a sweet little side-hug. “No way, they’re perfect. You managed to get the best of both of our personalities in here.”

 

“I did my best. Now go enjoy your party! Everyone is waiting for you.”

 

“Thank you,” he says for the hundredth time. “We never would have pulled any of this off without your help.”

 

“Joey!” Ryan, his fiancé, calls out. “My parents are here.”

 

“I gotta go,” Joey smiles apologetically. “By the way, you look great tonight. Maybe you’ll snag one of these for yourself.”

 

Jemma laughs, a bit awkwardly given the fact that she’d specifically dressed up with the intention of capturing Milton’s attention. “One can only hope!”

 

She watches him walk away, greeting his fiance’s family with typical Joey charm. A familiar presence lingers at her side and she sighs.

 

“Yes, Barbara?”

 

“Hey, no need to be defensive,” Bobbi says. “I brought you a drink.”

 

Jemma graciously accepts the martini that Bobbi presses into her hand, sipping at it with increasing anxiety. “Do you think he’s coming?”

 

“He said he was,” Bobbi reminds her. “But I thought you didn’t care.”

 

“He sent me those flowers,” Jemma tells her, doing her best to come off a little less desperate.

 

“He never said that,” Bobbi tells her as gently as possible. “He said he put something on your desk, and you’re his assistant. It could have meant anything.”

 

“What, you think he couldn’t possibly be interested in me?” Jemma demands defensively. “Just because I don’t find a new person at every wedding—“

 

“Woah, woah,” Bobbi backpedals. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just think that you have a tendency to be passive. You can either stand here waiting around for him all night long, or when he gets here, you can be clear and direct and ask what the flowers meant.”

 

“Do you really think I should do that?”

 

“Of course I do,” Bobbi says assertively. “Jemma, you’re a damn catch, okay? And you deserve to be happy. Look at what you did for Joey and Ryan.”

 

Jemma looks around. It’s a beautiful evening, and everyone appears to be enjoying themselves. Her hours and hours of effort to throw this party, and the exhaustion that ensued, have been thoroughly vindicated by how perfect it all turned out.

 

“It turned out quite nicely.”

 

“It turned out _amazing_ ,” Bobbi clarifies. “Because of _you_. All I’m saying is, I know you’re capable of getting shit done and going after what people want. I just wish you would use it when it came to what _you_ want.”

 

Jemma almost tells her that she sounds just like Fitz, but stops herself. Bobbi doesn’t know a thing about him, and besides, he’s just a tiny little blip in the grand scheme of Jemma’s life. She’ll never see him again, and there’s absolutely no need to talk about him.

 

“Maybe I will,” Jemma says. She does a little shimmy, an attempt to give herself some kind of confidence (and a movement that is at least somewhat influenced by the martini she’s downed on an empty stomach).

 

“Do we need a little more liquid confidence?” Bobbi asks slyly. Jemma slowly smiles at her friend, linking their arms together.

 

“Lead the way, trouble.”

 

She nearly manages to forget about the flowers and everything surrounding them as she shares some more drinks with Bobbi and their other co-workers, including Bobbi’s boss Phil. Stepping back and actually enjoying an evening she’s painstakingly arranged is a new feeling, and one that she certainly enjoys.

 

It takes ages for Milton to arrive, in characteristic lateness. Jemma finds herself bristling slightly when he walks in the door. She blames it on the vodka buzzing in her head, but she can’t help the bitter thoughts that crop up.

 

It’s his employee’s engagement party, one that she herself had slaved over, and he doesn’t even have the decency to show up fashionably late? He’s hours late, and the party is nearly winding down when he finally shows up. Jemma values punctuality, after all. It’s a sign of respect for the people you’ve agreed to meet with.

 

But all of those thoughts fly out the window when he raises a hand to wave at her with a sheepish smile. She grins back and waves back, a little overenthusiastically judging by the way Bobbi takes her hand gently and lowers it back to her side.

 

“Hey!” Milton practically shouts over the music. “How’s it going?”

 

“It’s going great!” she replies. Bobbi turns around abruptly, engaging in a conversation with one of Joey’s cousins to give them some privacy. “Everything is exactly as I’d planned.”

 

He glances around appreciatively and gives her a proud nod. “You’re quite the planner, Jemma. Thanks again for fitting my dry-cleaning into your schedule, I know that you plan by the minute.”

 

Jemma’s heart sinks as she begins to connect the dots.

 

There had been a dry-cleaning receipt on her desk, right next to the flowers. During her lunch break, she had scampered off to retrieve George’s suits for him.

 

That’s what he had meant by the thing he left on her desk.

 

“The dry cleaning?” she repeats a bit dumbly.

 

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’re a lifesaver.”

 

“So the um, the flowers were—“

 

“Yeah!” he interrupts enthusiastically, a teasing smile on his face. “Who sent you those? Do you have a boyfriend you’ve been hiding?”

 

“Um…no. Definitely not. If you’d just excuse me, please.”

 

She drops her martini glass on the bar and walks as quickly as she can for the nearest door. She bursts through it and lifts her handbag to her face, using it as a makeshift pillow to shove her face into. She lets out a frustrated, half-heartbroken shout of pain and disappointment, muffled only slightly by the glittery clutch scratching against her face.

 

Everything is blissfully quiet for a moment afterward, and Jemma lifts her face up with relief.

 

Her relief is short-lived, though, because she’s standing in a room full of strangers. Judging by the banner above the large round dining table, it’s the 40th wedding anniversary of the old couple seated side-by-side.

 

“Hello,” Jemma waves awkwardly. She begins bowing, for some reason, edging out of the room backwards. “Congratulations on…on forty years. That’s…wow. Many years. So many.”

 

She shuts the door to the private dining room behind her, with her stomach churning and her face on fire. Bobbi is at her side in an instant, worriedly touching her arm.

 

“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry,” Bobbi says gently.

 

“It’s fine,” Jemma brushes her off, but her voice cracks just enough to out her lie.

 

“Oh shit,” Bobbi whistles. “Amelia is here.”

 

Jemma turns her attention to the entrance. Her sister has arrived, in a bright yellow sequined dress that immediately grabs half the room’s attention. Jemma watches in horror as Milton begins moving toward her like a moth to a flame. Without thinking about it, she races for them, reaching them just as they’re within speaking distance.

 

“Amelia! So glad you could make it,” Jemma gushes, pulling her sister into a tight hug. Amelia misses the desperation in the display of affection.

 

“You two know each other?” Milton asks curiously.

 

Jemma grits her teeth. She had just told him, not two days ago, that her sister was coming to town. Not to mention the picture on her freaking desk, where he had been dropping off his dry cleaning receipt not 24 hours before.

 

He’s an oblivious idiot, and not for the first time, Jemma wonders what on earth it is about him that gets her so twisted up and confused.

 

“This is my little sister,” Jemma explains. “Amelia, this is my boss, Milton.”

 

“Hello there,” Amelia practically purrs. She sticks her hand out with more subtle grace than Jemma has ever achieved in her life.

 

“Hi,” Milton stammers out. “I uh, I didn’t realize Jemma had a sister until just a few days ago.”

 

Amelia laughs and tosses her hair over one shoulder. “Jemmy doesn’t always approve of my lifestyle, so perhaps she found it best not to mention me.”

 

Jemma scoffs, affronted. “That is not true! I’ve mentioned her loads of times. That picture from Christmas is on my desk.”

 

But neither of them seem to be listening to her anymore.

 

“Can I get you a drink?” Milton offers.

 

“I’d love one,” Amelia accepts with a coy little twist of her foot.

 

“Let’s head over to the bar, then,” Milton says, cocking his head to the right.

 

Jemma has become utterly invisible. They wander off without even a glance backward and she stands there, completely floored by this turn of events.

 

Amelia would never flirt with Milton if she knew how Jemma felt— _feels,_ she reminds herself—about Milton. She’s always been on the selfish side, sure, but she has never, and would never, do anything on purpose with the knowledge that it could hurt her older sister. Amelia loves her, just as much as Jemma loves Amelia.

 

But Jemma has never told her, and now it’s too late. Now her hand is on Milton’s forearm, and she’s laughing, and he’s leaning in closer to her than he’s ever gotten to Jemma in the six year she’s worked for him.

 

Nauseated and upset, she gathers her things and leaves the restaurant, desperate for the solitude of wallowing in her empty apartment.

 

***

 

As soon as Jemma gets back to her place, she unzips the stupid fancy dress she’d chosen and scrubs angrily at the extra makeup lining her eyes. She brushes out her meticulous curls and throws her hair into a bun, tugging on her rattiest and coziest pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt.

 

She gravitates to the kitchen, eager for her favorite heartbreak foods—a couple of uncooked Strawberry Poptarts, chased with a glass of white wine. She’s sure she’ll have a massive headache in the morning, but that will be nothing compared to the way her chest is aching.

 

She wishes she was a bigger crier. A good cry would feel quite nice right about now, but unfortunately it just feels like a hive of bees is vibrating in her chest instead.

 

There’s nothing for it, so she grabs her large stack of Commitments articles and settles onto the couch with her treats. With each Malcolm Doyle article she reads, the pressure in her body begins to recede. His tender, delicate depictions of these love stories slowly fills her empty spaces with hope.

 

Maybe it won’t be Milton, but she’ll have this someday. Someday, she will have her own story to tell. Maybe Malcolm Doyle will even write about her and her glorious love story. Perhaps he will cover her beautiful wedding, describing her dress and the look on the groom’s face in perfect, sweet detail.

 

She waits up for Amelia for hours and hours, even after her Malcolm Doyle articles have run out. It’s nearly four in the morning when her little sister stumbles in.

 

Amelia looks brighter and happier than Jemma has seen her since high school. She’s positively luminous, and as she goes on to describe her perfect night dragging Milton out dancing and teaching him how to salsa, and the utterly romantic kiss at Jemma’s own doorstep—well, it kind of lights Jemma on fire.

 

But seeing her sweet Amelia, always half-broken, look so whole and happy and at peace?

 

It hurts a little bit less. Jemma pastes on a smile and tells Amelia everything she knows about Milton, from his vegetarianism to his charities to his participation in a mentorship program. She tells Amelia all of it, a masochistic attempt to let her little sister better understand the man she’s unwittingly stealing away from Jemma herself.

 

Amelia leans forward and hugs her tightly, leaning her cheek on Jemma’s shoulder.

 

“I don’t know, Jem,” Amelia says softly. “It feels—this feels good. Like maybe I could finally have something real.”

 

Jemma strokes her hair and shuts her eyes against her own pain. Like many things in life, she will let Amelia have this.

 

She needn’t know what Jemma is giving up for her.

 

It isn’t until Jemma crawls into bed that she finally checks her phone. There’s a text from an unfamiliar number, and she opens it curiously.

 

**_Hey, crazy. Hope you liked the flowers._ **

****

Leo Fitz. _Of course_ it was him.

 

She decides not to think about why her stomach flutters at the thought.


	4. Not the One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, I apologize for how long it took to update! 
> 
> Unfortunately, this is a bit of a filler chapter but it's absolutely necessary to move the plot forward! Next chapter will really be where the story gets going, and I promise from that point on, it'll be Fitz city. There's not much of him in this chapter, so you've been warned.

**[Three Months Later]**

“Eventually you’re going to have to tell him you’re not a vegetarian,” Jemma laughs as she watches Amelia shovel a hot dog into her mouth behind the snack stand. They’re at a charity baseball game with Milton.

 

Through a full mouth, Amelia responds. “I know, I know. It’s just—now it’s been so long.”

 

“You could always actually become a vegetarian,” Jemma suggests.

 

Amelia fixes her with a dark stare and gulps down the rest of her food. “Bite your tongue, Jemma Simmons.”

 

Jemma giggles and hands her a napkin. “Wipe your face, you’re covered in mustard.”

 

Amelia moans lightly as she wipes off her cheeks, looking satisfied. “You have no idea how good that was. I haven’t eaten meat in like, nine days.”

 

“What a record,” Jemma notes wryly.

 

They begin making their way back to the patch of grass Milton had staked out for them. Bobbi and her British beau, Hunter, had come along as well, but somewhere during the fifth inning they had disappeared. In the month or so since Bobbi finally started bringing him around, Jemma has learned that she prefers not to know what the two of them are up to.

 

“So, are there any other things I need to keep away from in front of Milton?” Jemma asks as non-judgmentally as she can. She’s not a fan of her sister lying to Milton about her dietary habits, but Amelia has certainly done worse things for—and to—a man before. This is tame by her standards.

 

Besides, Amelia seems to walk on air around him. Her eyes light up. She’s started talking about going back to school and focusing more on the future, living a little bit less recklessly. It’s enough for Jemma to tramp down her own hurt and be happy for her.

 

 _More_ than happy, Jemma thinks. She’s thrilled for her baby sister, even if the man who seems to have changed her life is the one that Jemma has been pining after for years.

 

“He thinks I love dogs,” Amelia says with a crinkled nose. “And it’s not that I don’t like Gatsby! I really do! I just happened to um…overplay my relationship to Tony.”

 

Jemma chokes on a laugh. “You mean our childhood dog _Toby_?”

 

Amelia colors, running a hand over her face. “Oh my god, I’m the worst. Yes, him!”

 

“You used to run away from him.”

 

“What can I say?” Amelia sighs. “I’m just a cat person at heart.”

 

“Well hey, you like Gatsby,” Jemma reasons. “And that’s really the only dog you _have_ to like to be with Milton.”

 

As soon as Amelia hears his name, her eyes twinkle. Jemma has become accustomed to that dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. Overtime, it’s felt less and less like a fishhook to the heart.

 

Her face suddenly falls and Jemma looks at her worriedly. “These are just little white lies, right?”

 

Jemma frowns. “Clearly you aren’t lying to hurt him, Ames. Most people do some version of this when they first start seeing someone, you know.”

 

“Really? Even you?”

 

Jemma laughs derisively and links arms with Amelia. “That would require me actually going on a _date_.”

 

“Maybe Milton has a friend he can set you up with!” Amelia says excitedly, smacking at Jemma’s forearm. “It would be great! We could double date.”

 

“I’ve known Milton for years,” Jemma reminds her. “If he had someone who was right for me, I’m sure he’d have told me ages ago.”

 

Amelia sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “Fine. But if I happen to stumble across any eligible bachelors…”

 

“Then I will let you set me up on a date,” Jemma placates. “I wish you the best of luck in that. The last date I went on was with a failed astronaut.”

 

“A _failed_ astronaut?”

 

“He spent fourteen years in the space program and couldn’t manage to become eligible for any real work. Apparently he’s not a science guy,” Jemma scoffs.

 

“Alright, I’m not the brightest bulb in the box—“

 

“Shush, you’re brilliant!”

 

Amelia ignores Jemma’s usual interruption and presses on. “—but I’m like, ninety percent sure that you have to be a scientist to be an astronaut.”

 

“I’m pretty sure those are the rules too,” Jemma agrees. “Needless to say, this man was a bit of a fool.”

 

“And that was your last go of it?” Amelia asks sadly. “What do you do with all your time?”

 

“I spend time with Bobbi, I work, I plan other people’s weddings,” Jemma ticks off on her fingers. Amelia pouts. “Stop that. I don’t need your pity. I’m happy, Ames, I promise.”

 

Her sister looks unconvinced. “If you say so.”

 

“I do say so,” Jemma insists. “Now come on, your boyfriend is waiting.”

 

Amelia giggles and does a little skip, tugging her sister along to the man who’s unwittingly captured both of their attention. Amelia sits right next to him on the blanket and he bends down to kiss her lightly on the lips.

 

“Hm,” he grumbles as he pulls away. “Is that…mustard?”

 

“From a pretzel,” Jemma jumps in helpfully. “I had a chili dog, but Amelia doesn’t eat those anymore, so…pretzel it was! She loves pretzels.”

 

It might have been a bit much, judging by Amelia’s rapid hand movement toward her neck, indicating that Jemma should stop talking. Jemma has never been a particularly adept liar and it shows.

 

“Do you want another one?” Milton offers. “I can go get you one.”

 

Amelia’s hand clenches on her stomach, utterly stuffed from the three hot dogs she had shotgunned behind the concession stand.

 

“No thank you, babe, I’m full for now.”

 

Milton smiles sweetly and pecks her cheek. “Alright, let me know if you need anything else.”

 

She hums happily, curling up against his side as they all turn their attention back to the game. Jemma remains determinedly focused on the field, doing her best to ignore the giggling and canoodling happening to her right.

 

Amelia still doesn’t know. _Jemma_ doesn’t even if she has any kind of actual romantic feelings for Milton anymore. She’d flipped them off like a switch but it still hurts to see her sister with him.

 

The small, insecure part of her that often rears its ugly head wonders if she would feel this sick no matter _who_ Amelia ended up happy with. Maybe it’s the idea of her wild, broken sister finding love and happiness before she does that’s really bothering her. Maybe this isn’t even about Milton at all.

 

Maybe it’s never actually been about Milton. She thinks that maybe that’s even worse. What kind of person is she if she can’t be happy for the most important person in her life?

 

She shakes herself and stands, grabbing her purse. Milton looks up worriedly. “What’s going on? You okay?”

 

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just forgot that I’m supposed to be helping Daisy with her thank you cards. She and Trip are just getting around to it and I have the list of presents.”

 

This is partially true—Jemma does have the list of presents, but Daisy has been dragging her feet on the thank you notes for so long now, Jemma is pretty sure she’ll never write a single one. Luckily, Daisy’s husband finds her total lack of social grace charming.

 

Thinking about them for too long is just another reminder that she’s alone. Her friends are married or coupled off—even Bobbi, now—and it stings. She’s the only one who doesn’t have someone.

 

Without waiting for a response, she turns sharply on her heel and walks as quickly as she can out of the park.

 

***

 

“Ugh, he forgot his wallet,” Jemma huffs, storming over to Milton’s desk. It’s nearly 8:00 at night, and she and Bobbi are the only ones left in the office. Her friend looks up from her phone, clearly bored.

 

“Yours is exhausting,” Bobbi drawls. “ _Phil_ manages to remember where his wallet is. Well, aside from that trip he took to Tahiti but hey, what happens in Tahiti stays in Tahiti.”

 

Jemma smiles tightly. “Yes, I hear it’s a very magical place.”

 

She begins gathering her coat and her bag and Bobbi scoffs. “You’re not bringing it to him, are you?”

 

Jemma doesn’t look at her, busy leafing through Milton’s schedule. The entire thing is on Jemma’s desk as it is, so it doesn’t feel particularly intrusive.

 

“Of course I am.”

 

“We’re already here after hours,” Bobbi groans. “What more can you _possibly_ be expected to do? Is there some kind of Nobel Prize for Best Assistant that I don’t know about? If there is, I’d like to be in the running.”

 

Jemma snorts. “C’mon, Bob, you’re hardly be Nobel Prize material.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“You didn’t even come to work yesterday,” Jemma reminds her. Bobbi grins slightly.

 

“Well that was because Hunter and I were playing hooky.”

 

Jemma watches her friend’s expression and tilts her head to the side. “Wow. You quite like this one, don’t you?”

 

Bobbi shakes her head rapidly. “No, no, no. I just—he’s okay. He’s fine.”

 

“Oh come off it,” Jemma laughs. “You’re crazy about him!”

 

“I’ll only admit that if you admit that you’re in love with your boss, who is also your little sister’s boyfriend,” Bobbi sing-songs.

 

The smile slips right off of Jemma’s face and Bobbi immediately looks apologetic.

 

“If you must know,” Jemma says stiffly, “I have truly no idea how I feel about Milton these days. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go bring this to him.”

 

“Jemma, I’m sorry,” Bobbi says seriously. “Honestly. I don’t mean to push you so hard. I just worry about you, that’s all.”

 

Jemma softens. “You don’t have to.”

 

“Yes I do,” Bobbi insists. “Someone does, since you won’t do the job yourself.”

 

Jemma squeezes Bobbi’s shoulder and throws her coat over her arm. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I can look after myself, and I’m _fine_.”

 

“You should let me set you up.”

 

“No,” Jemma replies immediately. “Do you remember Kenneth?”

 

Bobbi cringes, standing to follow Jemma to the elevators. “That was a very unfortunate mistake, but—“

 

“No buts,” Jemma interrupts. “I don’t need a date. I don’t need a boyfriend, alright? I have my friends and my family and my career. That’s what matters.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“I do,” Jemma says. The elevator doors in front of them and the conversation gets dropped. Even still, Jemma finds her mind wandering to what it might be like to have someone to play hooky with. Jemma has never done anything like that in her entire life, but maybe with a partner—

 

It’s appealing; incredibly so, if she’s honest. The idea of rolling around in bed all day, watching movies and doing—other things—

 

She shifts in her heels and shakes herself. It’s just been a while. Maybe she’s a little bit lonely, but that’s only because all of her friends are getting married or starting new relationships. Jemma Simmons is absolutely enough for herself.

 

***

 

Jemma arrives at the restaurant scrawled on Milton’s calendar and gasps. There’s a band that strikes up a tune as soon as she enters, and the entire place is empty. There are candles everywhere, and the entire thing is so endlessly romantic that she nearly wants to cry.

 

“Stop, stop!” Milton calls out as he jogs toward her past all the empty tables. “She’s not the one, she’s not the one!”

 

Well _that’s_ certainly a slap in the face. She meant what she said to Bobbi—she has no idea how she feels about Milton—but she knows that hearing him proclaim so loudly that she’s not the one after years of following him around like an eager puppy?

 

Well, it hurts.

 

It hurts badly.

 

What hurts even worse is the ever-increasing anxiety that no one will ever call her the one, but she can’t even touch that right now.

 

Tramping down her stomped-on feelings, Jemma holds out his wallet. “You left this at the office. I thought you might need it.”

 

“Thanks so much,” he breathes, tucking it into his back pocket. He gestures around. “So, what do you think? Think Amelia will like it?”

 

Jemma swallows hard and smiles as broadly as she can. “Oh, absolutely. Of course. She’s a big fan of grand gestures.”

 

Amelia actually _isn’t_. Every time they would watch a classic romantic comedy growing up—Say Anything or Pretty in Pink or Sixteen Candles—Amelia would boo and hiss during the big sweeping romance scenes. Jemma would turn up the volume on their clunky TV and stare, misty-eyed and wistful, as couples embraced and proclaimed their love for each other.

 

But she won’t tell Milton that, not when he’s gone through all this trouble. Besides, Amelia is becoming something of an actress, with her fake vegetarianism and feigned love of hiking.

 

The door to the restaurant squeaks open and Amelia’s voice rings out. “Hello? Milton?”

 

“Go, go, go!” he whispers urgently to the band. Jemma shrinks away, trying to escape before she’s noticed, but then Milton does something completely unexpected.

 

He drops to one knee and pulls out a ring box just as Amelia appears. She freezes, stumbling back a step, and Jemma does the same.

 

“Amelia Simmons,” he rasps. “I know we haven’t been together for very long. But ever since I met you, I just knew. I look at you and it’s just—wow. Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

 

There’s a few seconds of agonizing silence. Jemma thinks her heart might explode and for the hundredth time in the past few months, she doesn’t know if it’s happiness, jealousy, or heartbreak. Maybe some combination of all three.

 

Her little sister finally breaks the silence, sobbing out an elated “yes” and dragging Milton up for a kiss. When they part and he’s slid the ring on her finger, Amelia immediately runs for Jemma, throwing her arms around her.

 

“I’m so happy you were here for this,” Amelia sniffles loudly. “It means so much to me.”

 

Jemma hugs her sister again, unable to bring herself to smile as widely as Amelia wants her to.

 

“Me too,” Jemma says. “I’m _so_ happy for you.”

 

At least half of her really means it, but she’s not sure what the other half is doing. The other half feels kind of like throwing up.

 

After a few minutes of excited chatter from her sister, Jemma manages to sneak out to give the happy couple some privacy to celebrate. She walks home on auto-pilot, floored by the events of the day, and stumbles miserably into her little apartment.

 

She clicks the message machine and walks into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

 

“Hey Simmons,” a familiar voice says through the machine. She straightens up, locking eyes with her own reflection. “So listen, I have an idea I’d like to run by you. I know that probably seems crazy to you—“

 

With a little scream of frustration, Jemma stomps to the machine and slams the delete button. Whatever Leo Fitz wants, he’s not going to get.

 

“I’ve had enough of men,” she grumbles at the black plastic machine. “You’re all trash.”

 

The machine says nothing in return.


	5. Malcolm Doyle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia gives her big sister a tight timeline for her wedding, and Jemma discovers the true identity of her favorite wedding writer.

“Thank you so much for coming with me,” Amelia gushes as they approach the Boat House at Central Park. “There’s no one better at this than you.”

 

Jemma shrugs, trying to shake the jealousy of the fact that not only is her little sister getting married first—she’s getting married where Jemma’s always wanted to, where their parents got married decades ago.

 

“Of course, Ames,” Jemma says. “I told you I’d help with this whole thing and I meant it.”

 

“I’m really relieved to hear that,” Amelia says. She stops in her tracks and halts Jemma with her.

 

A sense of dread starts to settle over Jemma, like a sixth sense for Amelia’s particular brand of trouble.

 

“Why?” Jemma asks slowly. “Amelia, are you—“

 

“No, no,” Amelia insists, waving her hands around. “I’m not pregnant, but…well, the wedding is going to be pretty soon.”

 

Jemma swallows thickly waits for her sister to continue.

 

“And by _pretty soon_ , I mean that it’s going to be in six weeks.”

 

Every synapse in Jemma’s brain fires at once, her thought process descending into a total blackout.

 

“Six weeks?” Jemma eventually repeats. At least she thinks she does, but she’s also not positive that she’s actually in her own body.

 

“I know it’s fast. Really fast, actually, but if we didn’t take the date that’s in six weeks, then we wouldn’t be able to get the boat house until _a year and a half from now_.”

 

“Well that would just be unreasonable,” Jemma snaps. Amelia’s eyes widen and she immediately regrets her attitude. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m very tired and I didn’t expect to throw this wedding together in such little time.”

 

Amelia’s face crumbles. “It’s impossible, isn’t it? We can’t pull it off.”

 

Jemma hasn’t seen her look this disappointed since…well, since Amelia actually realized that their mother was never going to walk through the door again. Jemma puts her hands on Amelia’s shoulders and looks her square in the eye.

 

“Stop that. We’re going to do this, and it’s going to be _amazing_. I promise you that. It’ll be everything you’ve ever wanted.”

 

Amelia squeals and throws herself into Jemma’s arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I knew I could count on you!”

 

Jemma squeezes her tightly and pulls back to look at her seriously. “You’re very welcome. Now, you’ve already secured the venue, right? Deposit is down and everything?”

 

Amelia nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Milton dropped off the check yesterday.”

 

“Perfect,” Jemma says, all business. “Now believe it or not, one of the first things we’re going to want to do is secure the cake. You’re so small you can wear off-the-rack, and if you want a really good cake, I know just the place to go. He can be a bit of a diva, but I think I can convince him to make it.”

 

“The wedding’s not for six weeks,” Amelia ponders. “Does he really need six weeks to plan a cake?”

 

Jemma laughs and links her arm with Amelia’s, leading her away from the boathouse. “Oh, my darling. You’ve so much to learn. Come on.”

 

“I just need to text the guy that was going to meet us at the boathouse,” Amelia says, pulling out her phone and tapping out a message.

 

“Did you hire a wedding planner?” Jemma asks, a bit wounded. “I told you I could do it and I’ve thrown so many weddings—“

 

“No, no, it’s a surprise for you,” Amelia grins. “Consider it a thank you for all that you’re about to do.”

 

Jemma eyes her wearily as they hail a cab on the sidewalk outside of the park. “You’re not setting me up, are you? I told you I don’t want to be set up.”

 

“It’s not a set up,” Amelia placates her. “It’s simply an arranged meet-up with a person that I think you admire very much. In fact, I know you admire very much.”

 

They slide into the cab and Jemma gives the driver the address to Foggy’s Bakery. By the time she turns back to Amelia, her sister is already on the phone with her fiancé, excitedly telling him that she’s off to choose a cake and inviting him to meet them there.

 

***

 

“It can’t be done!” Foggy exclaims, throwing his hands up. “No, Jemma. It just can’t. It’s impossible.”

 

“Foggy,” Jemma responds seriously. “Do not tell me that it can’t be done. When Karen and Matt’s cake was absolutely destroyed in transit, who jumped into the hotel kitchen and whipped up a new one from scratch in just a matter of hours?”

 

“Me,” Foggy says quietly.

 

“Yes. That _was_ you. And after how much direct business I’ve personally brought to you over the years, I should think you could do this small favor for my only sister.”

 

Foggy cringes, his expression softening just enough to tell Jemma that she might just get her way. “What you’re asking for is..”

 

“Very difficult,” Jemma concedes. She reaches over to pat his arm. “But if anyone in this entire city can do it, it’s you.”

 

Foggy smiles bashfully and brushes her off. “Aw, c’mon, Jemma.”

 

“Foggy…”

 

He grins at her with a shake of his head. “Fine. Fine, it’s done.”

 

“You are just the best!” Jemma says happily. She lifts herself up on the counter to peck his cheek and turns around with a triumphant little grin, aiming her charms at her sister and Milton. “And that, my friends, is how it’s done.”

 

“I’m glad you got to see her in action,” Amelia says to the man beside her.

 

Jemma’s heart stops.

 

What in the hell is Leo Fitz doing in this cake shop.

 

“Jemma, this is Malcolm Doyle,” Amelia beams, gesturing between them. “This is my sister Jemma Simmons, wedding extraordinaire and massive fan of your pieces.”

 

Fitz grins crookedly, holding out a hand. “Massive fan, huh?”

 

“No!” Jemma practically shouts. She slaps his hand away and glares at him. “You are not Malcolm Doyle.”

 

Amelia’s big brown eyes go wide. “Jemma!”

 

“His name is Leo Fitz,” Jemma explains a bit wildly. “Trust me, I know him, and he is not—“

 

“Malcolm Doyle is a pen name,” Fitz explains, mostly to Amelia, but his eyes remain on Jemma. “When you start giving out your real name, crazy brides come pounding down your door to try to get featured, and well—“

 

“No one needs that,” Milton finishes for him.

 

Fitz snaps his fingers. “Yep, exactly.”

 

“So _you_ ,” Jemma says slowly, trying to wrap her mind around the concept, “are Malcolm Doyle. _You_ write for the Commitments section of the New York Post.”

 

“Yep,” he smirks. “Me and Malcolm Doyle, one in the same.”

 

Amelia looks between them. “How do you two know each other exactly? Did you—are you—have you uh—“

 

“No!” Jemma practically shouts.

 

“Oi, you don’t have to sound so indignant about it.”

 

“I just want to be clear,” Jemma snaps in response. “Fitz and I have never had sex.”

 

Amelia smacks a hand over her face in embarrassment. “Jemma, God!”

 

Jemma rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, Amelia, I’m just saying that—“

 

“Well,” Milton says, clapping his hands together awkwardly. “Malcolm—or—Fitz I guess?—Fitz is going to be writing a piece on our wedding. So he’s going to be coming with you to a lot of the planning stuff.”

 

Jemma’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

 

“It’s gonna be fun,” Fitz smiles.

 

“Oh my God,” Jemma groans. “This is like finding out my favorite love song was written about a sandwich.”

 

“I like sandwiches.”

 

“Ugh, Fitz!”

 

Amelia and Milton share a glance. Amelia winks at him and he shakes his head, bemused.

 

***

 

The next day, Jemma wanders around a Pottery Barn with a price gun in her hand, trying her best to ignore the man following her around like a shadow.

 

“So why couldn’t Amelia and Milton do this part on their own?” Fitz asks. He aims his own price gun at a ceramic chicken and makes a big show of gun noises, pretending to gun it down.

 

Jemma rolls her eyes at her childishness even as a smile tugs at her lips. He’s got a certain boyish charm that she can’t help but find endearing. It’s endearing, but it’s not cute, she tells herself firmly.

 

“Milton had an important meeting and Amelia is at the florist.”

 

“You’re letting her choose her own flowers?” Fitz says. “Risky.”

 

Jemma glares at him. “I’m not some kind of control freak. This is her wedding, she calls all the shots.”

 

Fitz shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

 

Then he turns and walks off toward an overpriced bean bag, leaving her spluttering after him. She hustles to keep up, grabbing his forearm.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demands.

 

“I’m just saying, I’ve been following you around all day and it seems like you’re picking everything.”

 

“According to her specifications!”

 

“Again, could have fooled me,” Fitz says. “It’s not a big deal. You’re practically the queen of the wedding industrial complex.”

 

Jemma grits her teeth and does her best to ignore this. She turns on her heel and stomps off to the throw blanket and pillow set that she’s positive Amelia would love. She shoots them all with her gun, enjoying the vision of them exploding into little fluffy messes.

 

“What do you have against weddings?” she bursts out, whirling on Fitz. He’s standing much closer to her than she expected, but he doesn’t move. He meets her eyes and she’s struck by just how blue his are.

 

“They’re a useless, expensive ceremony that upholds a useless, outdated social construct,” Fitz explains calmly. “What makes you so obsessed with them?”

 

“ _Love,”_ Jemma practically spits.

 

He snorts derisively. “C’mon, Simmons, you can’t buy that. Why does someone need to spend north of 50 grand to prove that they love someone? Why does someone need to ask their friends and family for a ceramic chicken to celebrate a commitment to another person?”

 

Jemma steps back, affronted. “First of all, _you_ registered them for the ceramic chicken. And secondly, what happened to you? Bad divorce? Because the only way that someone could hate the idea of love and marriage so much is if a marriage ruined your pathetic little life!”

 

Fitz swallows hard, finally breaking eye contact. He sits down on the model couch and holds his hands up. “You caught me.”

 

Jemma blinks. “What?”

 

“Not a divorce,” Fitz corrects, “but…almost. I was engaged to my college sweetheart.”

 

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma says apologetically. She perches on the other end of the couch, watching him with concern.

 

She knows a thing or two about a broken heart. Sure, she’s never been turned into a cynic, but she can sort of see how it might happen.

 

“The week that I got assigned to commitments, I walked in on her with my best friend,” Fitz says woodenly. “I was even willing to try to work it out, maybe we could move past it or something, but she ran off with Grant the next day and I never heard from any of them again.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jemma practically whispers. “I had no idea—“

 

“Don’t do that,” Fitz chuckles. “That’s not what we do. I’m an ass and you call me out. You don’t feel sorry for me.”

 

“Well I do right now,” Jemma says. They watch each other for a long moment, and she suddenly feels the need to do whatever it takes to make the pain leave his eyes. “Want to register Amelia and Milton for a bunch of crap they don’t need?”

 

Fitz grins and hops up off of the couch. “Hell yeah.”

 

She laughs, trailing after him as he jogs around the store. He lifts up a faux antique globe and shoots it three times.

 

“They need three globes?” Jemma asks.

 

“One for every room!” he proclaims. “Your move.”

 

Jemma looks around and picks up a set of brightly colored wicker balls. “A ball basket. Everyone needs a set of wicker balls.”

 

“Oh my god,” Fitz laughs. “Stop saying—“

 

“Balls?” she says cheerily. He snorts and shakes his head.

 

“Alright, register your baby sister for some balls then.”

 

She salutes him and shoots them twice.

 

“Next place?” Fitz suggests. “I think we can do some real damage at Bed Bath and Beyond.”

 

Jemma’s original plan had been to abandon him long before her next stop, but he really is making this entire process less bittersweet for her. He’s…fun.

 

“You’re on.”


End file.
